Cianna Stewart, who I somehow was lucky enough to meet years ago when I first visited San Fran, approached me recently about this great site, Dudecraft, which was gathering stories to benefit 826 National, a nonprofit which helps kids learn to be writers.

Well, instaboner on my part. That sounds like lots of stuff I love. Dudes, crafts, kids, writing, nonprofits. Shoot, add some hotsauce and whiskey to that and my kind of party is starting!

Trast is 12. There are things about the age of 12 which need to be discussed.

Twelve is a bad year, in general. It’s like preadolescent 30. You’re no longer a kid, but you’re not a teen. You’re a fucking tween. Even the word used to describe you sucks. Tween. Like some long forgotten line of furry, singing toys that the dollar stores of America can’t schlep off, even on the poor kids, because nobody wants to own a Tween. And living with one isn’t much fun, either.

Twelve is a year of ugly, stinky, know it all, sarcastic, argumentative butt-holery; a moment in time when they realize adults can’t make them do anything; the moment in time before they realize that it’s easier for them to do it anyway. A twelve year old boy will complain about everything, eat everything, have a comeback for everything, and yet hear nothing.

So, now that I’ve summed up year 12 for you, let’s talk about Trast. Trast is my oldest son. At age six, Trast was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. Undetterred by any limitations this may have caused the child, he instead wrote a song about it. The words were,
(ahem)I have Asperger’s Syndrome
I have Asperger’s Syndrome
I have Asperger’s Syndrome
I have Asperger’s Syndrome

With the frequency and volume at which Trast would sing his song, especially in any public place, I was shocked that it didn’t hit the mainstream. Sadly, Trast got my hair, and enjoys wearing short shorts, socks pulled up to his thighs, wingtips and a camouflage shirt. Any dreams I have of his reaching Bieber-like status could never work out.

The thing about the Aspie stuff is, we never let it become an excuse or setback. We can laugh about it, he knows what it means, and when we have some sort of “melt-down” moment, we examine it after and find ways of dealing with those situations in daily life. Yeah, I’m pretty much saying that I’m like, the world’s greatest mom. Except…

Except I can’t help fucking with Trast. He’s just too fun to scare, dare, and bet. The kid will do anything to get out of cleaning his room.

And, when he’s scared of something, he has hilarious freak outs. (Kind of like me and bugs)

And over the years, I have had some real fun with the kid. He loves it, really. I can hear it in his girly screams. And so this summer, it is time to step up the game to a new level.
Trast is done with school tomorrow. He’s traveling to Los Angeles from Wisconsin on a plane by himself. We discussed a lot of things about how to spend the summer, and in his sassy, finger snapping way, Trast told me that “It’s On.” We’re going to try to out-prank each other this summer.
Keep your eyes on the Mom vs Boy section of this site for updates.

I’m doing this for parents of 12 year olds everywhere. That butthole is going down!

******NOTE: Just to lay a few very insane people’s minds to rest, I’m not talking about causing physical or mental harm to the kid. Trust me, he’s safe. We have a rapport that involves giving each other shit. He’s a pretty smart kid and he is totally 100% down with this idea. So shut up, dork faces.